


Snowed In

by queercapwriting (queergirlwriting)



Series: Hey Sweetie [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Snowed In, omg i wrote this for the tumbls before my wife and i got married, the trope, what is that ABOUT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-24 16:40:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21341389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queergirlwriting/pseuds/queercapwriting
Summary: A request from my beautiful fiancee: Team Machine gets snowed into the safe house. Shaw is restless, Reese misses Carter, and Root really wants Shaw to talk about her feelings.
Relationships: Root | Samantha Groves/Sameen Shaw
Series: Hey Sweetie [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1538479
Comments: 2
Kudos: 80





	Snowed In

“You’re telling me you can predict when someone’s about to get murdered, but not when we’re gonna get snowed in?”

“Our source can predict human behavior, Detective; the weather was never meant to be its forte.”

Reese almost smiles – almost – at Fusco and Finch’s banter as he pours himself another tumbler of scotch.

At least the safe house is well stocked with essentials.

But a moment later, he finds himself scotch-less.

“Hey,” he says to Shaw’s retreating back, but he knows before Root sidles up to him that it’s fruitless.

“Just pour yourself another glass, John,” she tells him, her eyes fixed on the way that Shaw kicks back John’s alcohol. “Someone’s not coping well with being cooped up.”

And sure enough, Shaw groans as soon as the scotch burns its way down her throat.

“Come on, Bear,” she pats her thighs in the closest thing to an excited tone any of them have ever heard her use. Unless she was talking about guns or RPGs. “It’s just a little bit of snow, isn’t that right, Bear? Can’t keep us inside – “

“But it can, I’m afraid, Ms. Shaw. And trying to escape with Bear isn’t going to help matters.”

“Try to kick back, Shaw,” John tries to help, his voice low and soft and just this side of teasing.

Shaw aims a glare at him that would make a lesser man cower, that makes Fusco shake his head, and that makes Root bite her lip and smile.

“You can always come sit by me, sweetie,” she invites, and Shaw rolls her eyes and pets Bear absently.

“Or on me. I’m not particular,” Root continues, and Finch suddenly finds something extremely interesting to focus on at his computer while Fusco nearly chokes on his club soda.

“Save it, Root,” Shaw grumbles, but Root’s smile is absolutely unaffected.

John sits near Fusco and Finch with a nearly imperceptible sigh, pouring a glass of scotch and leaving it undrunk at the table. Shaw catches his eye, and doesn’t even think about going to drink it. 

Because she knows he didn’t pour it for him, or for any of them.

“I miss her too, partner,” Fusco says softly, and John answers by downing his own glass.

Root sighs – something about regret flitting strongly through her mind – and steps gingerly across the room to kneel next to Shaw and Bear.

“Do you want another pair of slippers, boy?” she asks, sliding him a pair of fluffy sandals out of, seemingly, nowhere.

Shaw glares slightly. “Competing for the dog’s affections now, Root?” she asks, and Root gulps at the way Shaw pronounces the “t” at the end of her name.

“Only for yours, sweetie,” she counters smoothly, and Shaw rolls her eyes again.

“Why are you so afraid to talk about your feelings?” Root wants to know, glancing over her shoulder to make sure the boys are all occupied with each other. 

Not that she thinks they don’t know.

Everyone knows.

Bear knows.

Even Samaritan knows.

But somehow, she thinks privacy – or at least the shred of illusion left of the concept – might help Shaw be more comfortable. Or at least, less uncomfortable.

With soft things, gentle things, like… like this.

“Feelings?” Shaw asks, her attention focused on Bear instead of on the woman kneeling next to her. “I’m a sociopath, I don’t have feelings.” She says it while she’s rubbing Bear’s face between her hands, while she’s nuzzling her forehead onto his.

She says it while she unintentionally makes Root melt.

“I think Bear might disagree,” Root argues, and it’s a little bit petulant – because it’s Root – but it’s also gentle, and it’s also understanding.

Shaw immediately stops playing with Bear’s face, giving his head a good scratch before standing and stalking over to the safe house’s bar. 

“What do you want from me, Root?” she asks as she pours herself a drink, and they both pretend the boys aren’t all following them with their eyes, with expressions ranging from mildly curious to amused to just this side of terrified.

“Nothing you don’t want to give me, Sam,” Root tilts her head, and there’s only sincerity, not an overt come on, in her voice.

“And how would you know what I want to give you?” Shaw strides to the other side of the safe house, away, away, away.

“I don’t, because someone has spent a long time convincing herself that a lowered volume means no emotions at all. But you know as well as I do that it doesn’t, Sameen. It doesn’t mean that at all.”

“Yeah?” Shaw stops and turns abruptly, Root’s eyes widening, a fluid mixture of hope and fear when the fire in Shaw’s lights into her entire body. “Then tell me, Root. What does it mean?”

“It means that letting me care for you won’t end the world. There are plenty of other things to do that, Sameen. But this? This won’t. Hell,” she shrugs, and her voice nearly cracks. “This might just wind up saving it.”

If Shaw at all questions Root’s logic – if she wants to challenge the conclusion she’s drawn or the weight of her argument – she doesn’t say it.

She doesn’t say it, because her mouth is suddenly occupied with another kind of argument, another kind of logic.

The kind of logic that tells her how soft Root’s lips are, how her breath tastes like peppermint and her body smells like lavender and gun powder, how the former killer for hire’s always scary-steady body trembles in Shaw’s arms and how Shaw’s hands grab at her waist, at her face, to steady her. To steady them both. 

Because somehow – all her training be damned – suddenly kissing Root is making her knees weak and her eyes wet, her hands shake and her heart soar.

“See?” Root whispers softly when their foreheads are pressed together, both of them struggling to catch their breath. “The world isn’t over. Maybe it’s just beginning.”

“Too much talking,” Shaw grunts, but she’s grinning as she takes Root’s hand and pulls her back into one of the safe house bedrooms.

They’re both oblivious to Finch’s desperately diverted eyes, Fusco’s congratulatory ones, and Reese’s proud ones.

“You owe me twenty bucks, Finch. I told you Root would make the first move.”


End file.
